Classic Poem

Bless God, ye happy Lands,
For your more favored lot:
Our England dwells apart,
Yet O forget her not.
While, with united joy,
This day you all adore,
Remember what she was,
Though her voice is heard no more.
Pray for our desolate land,
Left in her pride and power:—
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower.

Look on her ruined Altars;
H E dwelleth there no more:
Think what her empty churches
Have been in times of yore;
She knows the names no longer
Of her own sainted dead,
Denies the faith they held,
And the cause for which they bled.
Then pray for our desolate land,
Left in her pride and power:—
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower!

Pray that her vast Cathedrals,
Deserted, empty, bare,
May once more echo accents
Of Love, and Faith, and Prayer;
That the holy sign may bless us,
On wood, and field, and plain,
And Jesus, Mary, Joseph,
May dwell with us again
Pray, ye more faithful nations,
In this most happy hour:—
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower.

Beg of our Lord to give her
The gift she cast aside,
And in His mercy pardon
Her faithlessness and pride:
Pray to her Saints, who worship
Before God's mercy Throne;
Look where our Queen is dwelling,
Ask her to claim her own,
To give her the proud titles
Lost in an evil hour:—
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower.